Emulation
by Naisumi
Summary: They kissed, and the moon shone brightly behind them--now-bright, still-bright. [slash] [Evietro] [AU prequel to Crucify My Love (explanation in A/N)]


Title: Emulation 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairing: Evietro; Evan/Pietro, Pietro/Evan 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: None. 

Warnings: Some angst, a relatively happy ending (;, minor OCs 

  


  


  


Notes: This is BatE's belated birthday present! Happy birthday, BatE! *hugs fiercely* I lovvvve you :D You are The Shib! 

This fic is basically the AU prequel to _Crucify My Love_. You do not need to read _CML_ to understand this, but feel free to read it if you'd like some good ol' fashioned first-person p.o.v. Evan ficness with massive _**ANGST**_. Now, I shall explain this "AU of Nai's own little reality, only not" business. 

Basically, for those of you who have read _CML_, you know that it's not exactly the happiest of fics, and Evan and Pietro have lots of bumps in their overall complicated relationship. This is my way of making that up to BatE because, you know, _CML_ was supposed to have Evietro boinkage, dammit! :D 

Therefore, _Emulation_ fixes this. It starts before _CML_ and veers off onto its own little world. Now, it wanted to veer a little _too_ far off, as you'll notice with the hintings of Pietro backstory. Fear not, though! Nai will write a Pietro companion piece to this to explain why he was bitchy to his mom in this fic _and_ in _CML_, though I notice that no one cared enough about the poor woman to say anything O.o; Or something. 

Um. Rambling. Yes, so uh...basically, _Emulation_ would be the prequel to _CML_. If _CML_ started with Evan and Pietro together. So. ...Yes. :D I love you all. 

  
  


  


Additional Notes: I LOVE YOU, BATE! LOVE! TO YOU! FROM ME! FROM ME! TO YOU! YEAH? (: 

  


  


  


As always, C&C is encouraged and craved and NEEDED DESPERATELY. 

Enjoy! :D 

  


  
  


  


-- 

  
  


em•u•la•tion -- (n.) the desire or ambition to equal or surpass 

  


  


-- 

  
  


  


  


It was cold enough to see breathing when Pietro was walking that morning. Too cold in April--to be colder, probably, in May. The city always got like that before spring; it always got quiet like winter and it always fell asleep in snow. In Pietro's perfect world ,though, it didn't snow. Not in April. 

"Fucking, goddamned sonuvabitch," he mumbled to himself as he walked. The soles of his sneakers flapped and a little snow crept in with every step. He scowled. 

Pietro Maximoff found New York in general very exciting. He found it exciting in the way someone who'd heard about it too much would find it; he was thrilled in a very distanced sort of way, having seen one store and so seen them all. Now he studied soggy flyers clinging to the base of a streetlight and noted that they looked very much like the strips of newspaper that he'd dipped into paste to make paper mache in second grade. He critically found it uninteresting. 

The incredible height of the buildings shadowed the horizon, dwarfing the fog of white and gray smearing the skyline in the distance. Pietro kicked a clump of snow and ice and wondered almost jealously what it'd be like to actually live in the center of New York City. He'd tried to talk his parents into letting him ride the metro in the other day, but they wouldn't let him. 

"Fuckers," Pietro said to a pigeon that was trying to eat something brown and indistinguishable. He turned away in disgust when the bird ignored him. 

It was something very unsatisfactory about New York. Pietro didn't mind it nearly as much as he could have ("It's all gray right here," he'd complained, and his father had quietly reminded him that he'd found Pennsylvania "too green" and Ohio "too yellow."). However, it bothered him on a fundamental level that, despite his record of popularity and his rapport with people, he hadn't found someone that he actually really liked yet. Somehow, New York City didn't seem nearly as exciting without someone to go with--and everyone here was used to the city anyway. He didn't want to seem _too_ excited. He'd look like a dope. 

Pietro was feeling remarkably sorry for himself when he heard the hollow, rubber sound of a basketball on pavement. Curious, he went to investigate. 

There was a house with a crooked, faded green roof and leaky piping up the side. The gray-white siding was splotched with rust stains that looked like bullet holes and patches of paint were peeling off, water-stained. A boy was sitting on the steps that led steeply from the front door down to the fissured sidewalk. He had a gray hoodie on and cargo shorts and was dribbling a worn, rusted-orange basketball. He looked bored. 

Pietro squinted and didn't recognize him. He walked a little, then stopped a few feet in front of the boy. They looked at each other almost solemnly for a few moments. 

"Hey," Pietro nodded toward the shorts the boy had on. "A little chilly?" 

"Nah." The boy shifted a little and dribbled the ball idly between his knees. 

"Name's Pietro," Pietro said very casually. 

"I'm Evan," the boy said. Then, after a pause of hesitation: "Are you new here?" 

Pietro scowled, but replied, "Yeah, the mothership touched down yesterday. Tell me, what is this 'b-ball' everyone keeps talking about?" 

"An elaborate mating ritual," the boy named Evan said. "With chest-bumping and towels." 

Pietro snickered and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. 

"So, Evan, you have places to be?" 

"Not really," Evan said. 

"Do you know where there's anything interesting to do?" 

"We could go play some ball," Evan offered, basketball tucked under one arm as he stood up. 

"Sure," Pietro said. He didn't have anything better to do. 

The two of them began walking, and Evan asked very curiously, 

"Where're you from?" 

"Oh," Pietro waved it off. "We just came in from Chicago. We were only there for, what, two months, too. My dad tracks UFOs and we're always on the move. Roswell's next," he added, for kicks. 

"Ha-ha," Evan said almost sarcastically. "This one kid I know's totally obsessed with UFOs. X-files an' all that." 

"My dad's Mulder after a mid-life crisis," Pietro said lightly. "What grade are you in? I've never seen you around." 

"I'm in eighth," Evan answered. "The school's just down the block from here, actually." 

"Oh, I've got _seniority_," Pietro grinned. "Because I'm an illustrious _freshman_, you see." 

Evan laughed and it was healthy-sounding. Friendly. 

"You're a fish," he said, still grinning. 

"Shut up," Pietro said. "_That_'s the word they're using on the mean streets of New York? I thought it'd have the words 'mother' and 'fucker' somewhere in there." 

"I'm a green middleschooler," Evan reminded him. 

"Right," Pietro sighed. "I picked a newbie to talk to. What's _your_ street name? Has to do with bowling shoes, hey?" 

"Even if it did, what's gonna keep me from leadin' you into some alley and leavin' you there to die?" Evan reasoned peaceably. 

Pietro mock-gasped with horror. 

"I'm appalled. The youth of America these days are so violent! You dope." The last bit ruined the eloquence of his melodrama and the two chuckled a little. Conversation persisted on a lethargic tone fitting for the damp skies and the relentless, surrounding monochrome. 

"It's a bad day to be out," Evan observed. 

"It's not _always_ like this, right?" Pietro hedged, quirking an eyebrow. 

"Oh, no. No, it really isn't. This idn't Baltimore, you know," Evan said. 

Pietro's eyebrow arched higher as he asked innocently, "It's not?" 

"Aw, shut up, man," Evan grinned and shoved him a little in the shoulder. "You think you're real funny, don't you?" 

"No," Pietro said with airs. "I think I'm fucking hilarious." 

They're reached the basketball court, fenced in with dull metal links. Pietro kicked at the closed gate, and sourly watched it swing a little, rattling. There were seven or eight boys, all older than them, and they were taking up what little space there was. 

"Oh," Pietro said. "I think I hate New York." 

"There's another court around the corner," Evan said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. 

"Can't we just kick them out?" Pietro complained. 

"What, _you_ wanna try?" Evan said incredulously. 

"I can do a killer New York accent," Pietro informed him, thinking of his outsider status. "I'll blend right in." 

"I think it'd take more than an accent to kick 'em out," Evan shifted nervously. "Like maybe a metal pipe or a broken bottle." 

"You've watched too many movies," Pietro scoffed. 

"They're gonna kick your ass," Evan replied, skeptical of his new companion's charms. 

"Maybe if I act wounded," Pietro continued to himself. "Would that work? 'I've only got three more months left to live, and all I've ever wanted was to slam a couple of games of hoops with my good ol' buddy Evan...Evan...'" 

"Daniels," Evan filled in helpfully. 

"'Evan Daniels. Won't you _please_ let us play?'" Pietro affected his best pitiful face and Evan rolled his eyes with a laugh. 

"Like they're going to buy _that_." 

"Oh, ye of little faith," Pietro said, flicking at some imaginary dust on Evan's shoulder. "Just watch." 

"I hope you realize that the nearest hospital's nine blocks from here and I'm not carryin' you the whole way," Evan said. 

"Ease up, Ed," Pietro smirked. "I've got us covered." 

"Ed," Evan repeated, and looked as if he were about to ask about it, but didn't. Instead, he just leaned against a streetlamp--broken, by the looks of it--and watched Pietro saunter over to the court. The pale boy just watched for a few moments, then he toed open the gate, his hands in his pockets still, and wandered in very casually. 

One of the older boys stopped and seemed to ask him what he wanted. Pietro must've told them very frankly because they exchanged looks, then the boy who had addressed him first gestured a little and pointed at the gate. Pietro crossed his arms and swung the gate with his foot, pushing it in, then toeing it back toward him. The boy frowned at him, and bent a little closer, the harshness in his voice reaching Evan's ears. 

"...you going to make me?" He heard Pietro say and cringed. He had to admire the Pietro's guts, but it seemed rather futile to argue with someone who had been there first. Anyways, his mom was going to lose a screw if he got into a fight. 

Evan edged a little closer, and heard Pietro say snidely, "And what's your name? Darlene?" 

The first boy lunged at him and narrowly missed, regaining his balance seconds from the pavement before being pushed down by Pietro's knee on his back. The other boys scattered like a shuffle of cards, all converging on their intruder. 

"Pietro?" Evan called. One of the older boys got thrown into the fencing right in front of him, shaking the metal links like rain. Suddenly, he heard another voice, bright in falsetto. 

"Oh, Ro_berto_, what're you doin', doin', doin'?" 

The first boy scowled, on his knees, and climbed to his feet. 

"What the fuck do you want, Carrucio?" 

"Aw, are you pickin' on Maria's li'l bro's frien--ds?" A boy with ginger brown hair asked with an impish grin. He had piped sports pants and a navy blue t-shirt on, a headband, and gloves. 

"Dipshit," Roberto said and his friends looked at him. He knocked open the door and shoved the newcomer aside, "I got better things to do." 

"Oh--oh, right." A vindictive snicker. 

The boy--named Roberto, apparently--yanked the grinning boy over by the collar of his shirt and said, "You tell Maria and I'll rip out your eyeballs and fucking puke int'your skull, dig?" 

"Fuck off," Maria's younger brother said. 

"Go to hell," Roberto said, then slinked off, his friends in tow. Behind them, Pietro was sitting with his back against the fence, an elbow propped on one knee under his chin and the other leg stretched out. He looked tousled and had a small cut on his cheek, but seemed cheerfully alright. He waved. 

"Davis! I didn't know you lived near here." 

"Davis Carrucio," Evan said with some surprise. "Aren't you Matt's friend?" 

"Yeah," Davis said and ducked into a mock-boxing stance, one-two-ing at Evan's shoulder. "You hang out with Matt's li'l bro, whazhisface, yeah?" 

"Langley," Evan said, nodding. 

"What the hell kind of name is 'Langley?'" Pietro asked. He'd gotten bored sitting over on the court by himself. 

"It's real renaissance," Davis chortled. 

"Shut up, Carrucio," Pietro grinned, wiping at a smudge of dirt above his left eye, "You don't even know what that means." 

"He's cool," Evan said. "Langley, I mean." 

"Hey, hey, they're a cool bunch," Davis said. "Cool, co--ol cats." 

"You're a dumbass," Pietro scoffed. "What are you doing out?" 

"Oh, I'm _dealin'_," Davis said. "I'm hangin' out with my buddy _Adam_. Droppin' E. Fucker. I'm runnin'." 

"Yeah, I guess you are," Evan said very matter-of-factly. Davis grinned. 

"Oh, a wiseguy." 

"You want to play some ball with us?" Pietro asked. He was a lot more chipper now that he had gotten into someone else's business and ruined the day for them. 

"Naw, maybe some other time. I gotta finish my run. If I try out fer the team, Maria says she'll buy me that new CD. Y'know?" 

"She's bribing you with CDs?" Pietro tsked. 

"Sixteen fuckin' dollars," Davis groused. "I ain't got that kinda money. Anyways, I'll see you kids later." 

"Don't trip," Pietro said helpfully. 

"Bye," Evan said, skirting out of Davis' way as he took off like a bruised bullet, all in black and blue. 

"He's a cool guy, isn't he?" Pietro said. 

"Sure," Evan said. 

"What, you don't like him?" Pietro asked. 

"He looks like the kind of guy who'd give you shit just for the hell of it," Evan admitted. 

"Well," Pietro grinned. "That's 'cause he is." 

They played basketball for a little while--horse, one-on-one--then Evan glanced at his watch. 

"Oh, I gotta get home," he said. 

"Why?" Pietro asked, shooting a basket. He made a face at the sky drowning in clouds right above the backboard, daring it to snow with a wrinkle of his nose. 

"It's almost time for lunch. Mom'll get pissed if I don't show up." 

"Oh," Pietro said. Evan looked at him, a sort of puzzled expression on his face. 

"Don't you haveta get home, too?" he asked. 

"No, I think I'll hang out here for a little." 

Evan watched him bounce the basketball on his knee, hands-free, as if he were playing soccer. 

"Do you wanna come over to my house?" Evan asked finally. 

Pietro brightened imperceptibly. 

"Sure, why not," he said carelessly. "That sounds cool." 

"Are you goin' anywhere for spring break?" Evan asked as he nudged the gate open and left the court. Beside him, Pietro was walking the ball. 

"No," Pietro scowled. "I'm under witness protection. Damned CIA." 

"I'm not goin' anywhere either," Evan said, smiling. "So you wanna hang out or somethin'? A lot of my friends are heading out with their families." 

"You can show me the sights," Pietro said with a hint of sarcasm. "And I'll be appropriately awed." 

"Sounds exciting," Evan ribbed. 

"Up yours," Pietro replied lightly with a grin. 

Though the two of them had met only hours before, there was already a companionable comfortableness between them. Pietro would never admit it--maybe not even to himself--but he was relieved that there was no awkward misunderstanding between him and Evan, no matter how small. He usually glossed brilliantly over any sign of inexperience with his quick wit and so-called casual indifference, not bothering to test the waters before speaking. However, with Evan, there was no need to do so anyways, which made him seem all the more amiable. Secretly, Pietro was glad. It was different. 

"What's your mom do?" Pietro asked curiously all of a sudden. He always wondered what other kids' parents were like. 

"She's a businesswoman or somethin'. She's in accounting, I think." Evan didn't sound too thrilled. 

"Oh, exciting," Pietro said, not altogether sincere. 

"I know," Evan said. "My dad's in business, too, but 'least he gets to travel." 

"Yeah?" Pietro said. "My dad doesn't do anything. I don't even know what he does." 

"Heh," Evan grinned. "I know how you mean." 

Evan jogged up the steps to the front door of his house--a pale lime green--and rummaged in his pockets for his latchkey. 

"We're in," Pietro said, smiling mischievously as soon as they got through the door. 

"Mom, I'm home," Evan called. 

A woman with permed hair and a violet blouse and slacks came in. She had gold, shell-shaped earrings on either side of her face and strawberry red lipstick shining on her lips. She smiled in an open sort of way then, saying very pleasantly as only a mother could to someone who wasn't her child, 

"Hello. A friend of yours, Evan?" 

"Yeah. This is Pietro," Evan said dutifully. "We were playing basketball." 

"Hi, Mrs. Daniels," Pietro chirped, suspiciously innocent. 

"Pleased to meet you, Pietro...?" Mrs. Daniels shook his hand and raised her eyebrows in question. 

"Maximoff," Pietro said. Her hand was very soft in his and felt like powder. He felt the polished coldness of a diamond ring on her finger against the fold of his knuckles. 

"Maximoff," she repeated. She shifted her weight to one leg, leaning back a little and surveying him. "Didn't you just move in a month or two ago?" 

"Three," Pietro said smoothly. "I'm acclimating." 

Mrs. Daniels laughed. He grinned and leaned an elbow on Evan's shoulder, jostling him. 

"I know your mother," she said. 

"Oh," Pietro said, suddenly still. 

"Can Pietro stay for lunch?" Evan asked. 

"Sure," Mrs. Daniels said. "Do you need to call your parents, Pietro?" 

"Oh, no, that's fine," Pietro grinned very slickly. "They're not expecting me back for a while." 

"Okay, well, what do you think of Italian?" 

Pietro beamed and said almost authoritatively, "I _love_ Italian." 

"We eat Italian all the time," Evan told him. "I like Mexican better, though." 

"Mexican's not bad," Pietro agreed. "It's like a kick in the mouth. Like Sprees," he added. 

Evan chuckled and Mrs. Daniels smiled, 

"Ten minutes, Evan--take the lasagna out of the fridge, heat it for five, then another five after you let it stand, okay?" 

"You're not staying?" Evan asked with surprise. 

"No, sorry, precious. I've got to get back to work--something huge came up about the merger." 

"We'll tuck the kids in, mop the deck, and weed the garden, Mrs. Daniels," Pietro reassured her and she laughed rather beautifully. 

"See you later," a kiss on Evan's cheek, "It was nice meeting you, Pietro--" a smile and pat on Pietro's shoulder. 

Pietro smiled slyly and sighed back, affectedly lovelorn, "Nice meeting _you_, Mrs. Daniels." 

They watched her leave. Evan turned to him, caught between a grin and a grimace. 

"You're awful," he said. 

"Awful on what?" Pietro asked, reminding him, "I'm perfect, remember?" 

"Shut up," Evan grinned now. "Brownnoser." 

"I'm telling your mom you called me that," Pietro warned. 

"Oh, _shut_ up!" 

"Aw, you're hurting my feelings." 

Laughing, Evan punched him in the shoulder and turned the corner to the kitchen, pointing at the basketball in Pietro's hands, 

"Hey, go put that in my room, wouldja? I'll toss the lasagna in the microwave. Second door on the left." 

"Sure, I'll be nice," Pietro said with a martyred air. 

He climbed the stairs, his footsteps muffled by carpet and tennis shoe. On his left, a panorama of photographs sprawled in comfortable unconcern behind the glaze of glass. The stairs were pearl white with a shade of pepper. The hallway lights above were candle pale. Beside him, the banister glowed. 

He rounded left and nudged open an already ajar door, tossing the basketball into a black laundry basket on his right with a Wal-Mart sticker on it. He stood then, limbs akimbo, and looked at the glossy posters, clothes strewn over the floor, the bulletin board thick with a cake of papers. 

"Didja find it?" He heard from downstairs. He rested his hand on the doorknob. 

"No, I'm lost," he said. "Send out the troops." 

A laugh. "Shut up and get down here." 

"Yeah, yeah." Pietro paused. Then, glancing one more time around the cluttered bedroom, he took the stairs down two at a time. 

  


  


  


  


"I'm home," he said. The lights were all out. Someone shuffled in the dim kitchen. 

"Pietro," he heard a voice like ash drift to his ears. "Where have you been?" 

It was wrung with worry, and immediately he became annoyed. 

"Nowhere." 

"Oh," the voice said, even quieter now. 

"Turn on the lights, would you, Mom?" Pietro said. "Just turn on the lights--" He reached over and flicked on the fluorescent lights in the kitchen. They hummed a clean white. 

His mother--foster mother, actually--was a frail woman with translucent skin and thin, dark brown hair. She rarely wore makeup and she seemed to always wear olive green. He couldn't help but shrink away from her with all her plaintive silence. 

"Did you eat dinner yet?" she asked. 

"Yeah," he lied. 

"Oh," she said. 

Her first name was Edith, and he couldn't help but want to call her that. It was one thing he afforded, however: to call her 'Mom.' 

"I met someone new," he said grudgingly then, not sure why he bothered. He was still standing, his arm bent at the elbow, palm pressed to the doorjamb. 

"You'd like him," he added. 

"Oh," Edith said. "Are you sure you're not hungry?" 

"His name is Evan," Pietro said, ignoring her. "He lives a few blocks away." 

"Pietro?--" 

"_No_, Mom, I'm not," he snapped. "I'm not hungry, I'm not tired, I'm not--I'm going for a walk." 

He turned sharply around and left. The kitchen light was still on behind him. After a moment, Edith stood and slowly made her way over to the light switch. Her hand hovered briefly over it, fingers flitting indecisively like pale tendrils of smoke. Then, she brushed the light off and it was dark again. 

Several hours later, when Pietro slipped back in, the house was still dark. He didn't bother turning on the lights. He didn't want to see if someone was there or not. He climbed the stairs as silently as possible, and rolled into bed, stared at the ceiling, tossed his arm over his eyes. Reaching into his pockets, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes and set it on the nightstand next to him. He drew a final breath, sighing. It was so very, very dark. 

  


  


  


  


He woke up the next the morning, his eyes gritty. His mouth tasted dry and he made a face, turning onto his side, shivering a little. Last night, he'd fallen asleep on top of the covers. 

Next to him, the cigarette box he had bought last night beamed up at him, polished bright with plastic wrapping and white and gold. He tucked his knees up against his stomach for a few seconds, then sat up, gingerly swinging his feet to the floor, cool with dawn. He glanced up. The clock on his bookshelf gleamed 7:55. 

"Fucker," he mumbled to himself, consciously quiet so his parents wouldn't hear him if they were near. 

His hair still damp from a shower, Pietro wandered downstairs. The kitchen was a different sort of gray, dim behind the heavy curtains on every window. He scowled as he flung them open. Edith was afraid the cold would seep in. 

"God," he muttered. In the pantry, there were six different brands of cereal and four flavors of Poptart. He remembered yesterday morning: 'Your favorite is blueberry, isn't it?' 

Three of the seven boxes of Poptarts were blueberry. He decided he didn't even _like_ blueberry. 

"_G_od," he repeated, emphasizing the hard g at the front. He glanced over at the family room beyond the dining table. Edith was curled up in the maroon-brown EZboy recliner with pale slacks on and an olive green blouse. Her face was wan with sleep. 

His lips curled with scorn. 

"God, _Mother_," he said, sounding angry. Edith barely stirred and seemed to stop breathing every other second. Her hair hung about her face and neck. The clock beside her screamed 8:15 from on the bookshelf. 16, now. 

Pietro wasn't hungry. He tugged at the sleeves of his t-shirt. Green. He turned very quickly and paused at the front door. Walking back, he stood over the recliner. He drew into his hands the light blanket from the back of the sofa. He aired it out, slipped it over her, smoothed the corners. Then he left. 

It was sticky cool outside like only morning can be, and he walked on the edge of the sidewalk, his arms pinned to his sides. He lifted them when he wobbled a little, then put them back down. A car rushed by, slicing through the sleepiness of morning like fast heat in snow. He made a face. The quickness faded. 

Then he saw a familiar figure, standing hesitantly a few feet beyond him. 

"Ed," Pietro said. The chill of the family room disappeared in a sigh. He smiled. "How the hell did you find out where I lived? Stalker." 

"Shut up," Evan said, smiling. "I was just wonderin' if you'd--you know--want to go for a movie or somethin'." 

He toed a broken piece of sidewalk. It clattered, sounding like porcelain against the rest of the brittle cement. 

"Don't you think we're moving too fast?" Pietro asked with a sly almost-smile. Evan shoved him, then replied with mock-seriousness, 

"No, do you?" 

Pietro's smile brightened to a grin. 

"Not at all." 

He hopped off of the curb, crossed his arms. 

"What are we going to see?" Pietro asked. "And are you buying me lunch?" 

"I don't care," Evan said. "And hell, no." 

"You dope. What an awful first date," Pietro grinned. "Why don't we go in, then? To the Bronx or Manhattan, I mean. I don't want to just _sit_." 

"Well," Evan said. "I don't think I'm allowed to take the metro by myself..." 

"Oh," Pietro said. "But you're not by yourself. You're with me." 

"I think," Evan said dryly, "that that might be even worse." 

"Doesn't your _mommy_ like me?" Pietro said, simpering. 

"Stop that," Evan said, squirming a little. "And yeah, she likes you." 

Here, the younger boy shot him a sidelong glance full of suspicion; "What'd you _do_ to her?" 

"She's taken by my charm," Pietro said very matter-of-factly. 

Evan grinned and kicked a chunk of broken-off pavement. 

"So what d'we do now?" he asked, dejected. He seemed almost painfully bored. 

"Let's go swimming," Pietro said then very brightly. "It's going to be 90-some out." 

"What is that, anyway?" Evan muttered. "It was, what, twenty yesterday?" 

"Below zero, I'm pretty sure," Pietro said. "Are there any pools around here, anyway? Rivers? Without sewage?" 

Ha--" Evan chuckled. "Sewage would mutate us into one-eyed, blue-skinned, frog-legged freaks." (1) 

"Precisely why we're avoiding the radioactive goop," Pietro said. 

"I think there's a pool around here somewhere," Evan mused. "There's this rich-ass neighborhood eight or nine blocks east. Their pool's off limits, though." 

"Oh," Pietro said. "Community pool?" 

"Yep," Evan said. He carefully lined up the clump of cement with a dark crack of the sidewalk. He pushed it down with his heel and left it there. 

"Oh," Pietro repeated, as he often did. Then, without missing a beat, he beamed. "Let's break in." 

Evan paused, grinned, and said with amusement, "Very funny." 

"I'm serious," Pietro told him; "This is my serious face. I'm so serious I can feel it oozing it out my pores." 

"Oh, shut up," Evan said. "You can't be serious. They got security." 

"Like electronic things and lasers?" Pietro seemed to be getting more and more cheerful. Evan eyed him warily. 

"May-be-e-e," he said, dragging out the syllables. 

He'd found another bite of pavement and was kicking it along very placidly. 

"Maybe _guard dogs_, too," Pietro said. He had a rather worrisome smirk on his face. 

"Pietro," Evan complained, "this doesn't sound like a good idea." 

"Oh, come on," Pietro said. Then he grinned: 

"Just think of it as a challenge." 

  


  


  


  


"Shit, shittin', shit_ter_," Evan mumbled. 

"Quit bitching," Pietro ordered. 

"I can't be_lieve_ I let you talk me into this," Evan said hotly. Pietro grinned at him and batted his eyelashes. 

"Evan, dear," he said in a deliberately girlish voice, "we can paint our nails and try on each other's clothes later tonight." 

Evan scowled at him. "Asshole." 

Pietro snickered and said, his voice normal now, "Shut up and give me the flashlight." 

Evan muttered to himself as he ducked down to rummage in his orange duffel bag. He emerged a few seconds later, flashlight in hand. 

It was dark now. They had gotten to the pool's gates at 10 p.m. exactly, and Pietro had gleefully synchronized their watches to twelve. Evan had let him, shaking his head in a sort of bemused amusement. There weren't too many stars out, as if the sky were smothered with the heat. The only brightness was the occasional blip of an airplane overhead and the mirage of paleness like confetti in the distance--the city glittering, vivid in a haze. Pietro paused to look at it, then turned back to the fuse box set in a plinth of stone. 

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck," Pietro said, fiddling with the gleaming lock on the handle. 

"Are you sure you know what you're doin'?" Evan asked, hovering a little. He moved back a little as he nearly tripped over Pietro in the darkness. 

The flashlight misted bright in a spot that fizzed out to black around. 

"I've almost got it," Pietro said absently. His fingers worked a lock pick, and Evan watched him do so. 

"Did you do this a lot back in Chicago or whatever?" he asked. It seemed that Evan might've been uncomfortable, and Pietro's eyes flickered to search his face for any trace of it. There was nothing. Pietro grinned. 

"Oh, maybe," Pietro said. "Don't tell me you're an angel." 

"Shut up," Evan said almost automatically. "And, no--I mean, y'know--some of my friends know how t'do it, too." 

"It's pretty handy," Pietro said. Then, smugly, he tucked the lock pick back into his sock. "Got it." 

He peered into the cavity of the fuse box. 

"This'll take a little while," Pietro said. 

"Stumped?" Evan asked. He seemed to be grinning in the darkness. 

"Fuck off," Pietro said, smirking. "It's a piece of cake." 

Their watches read 10:38. Pietro grinned and held the gate open with an overly elaborate gesture. 

"You first, Ed." 

Evan rolled his eyes, swung his duffel bag over his shoulder, and ribbed, "What took you so long?" 

"Obviously your inferior presence has stymied my innate genius...ness." 

"Oh, yeah," Evan said dryly, "you're such a genius the English language idn't adequate 'nough to describe it, huh?" 

"You got it, Ed," Pietro said cheerfully. He nudged shut the metal gate and surveyed the pool. The moon swelled, not as bright as it usually was, and cast dim brushstroke light on the gentle lapping of the shadow-colored water. There was a faint scent of chlorine. To the right, there was a squat pool house, cheddar light of a lamp glowing over it. 

"What if someone sees us?" Evan asked nervously. 

Pietro scoffed; "Oh, come on. If _I_ were a rich sonuvabitch, I'd either be out partying or in Florida somewhere. Maybe Hawaii." 

Evan paused, his shirt half-off. "Hawaii sounds pretty good." 

"You're telling me," Pietro said. They grinned at each other. 

Clad in only swim trunks, Pietro walked backwards, reading aloud the increasing depth of the pool, marked with white reflective paint. At about the third deepest, he dived into the water, emerging a few seconds later, backstroking. 

"The water's fine," he singsonged. "Not too fucking bad." 

"I'm pretty sure this is illegal," Evan told him before following suit and plunging with a splash. 

The water was cool and felt like the wind all around them in the still, humid night. Evan brushed by him, the water parting in waves on either side him, and he felt a sense of calm then, watching the dark skin in the dark night in the dark water. He felt a sense of fascination then, a glowing like the moon in the sky, and he felt a sense of heat pooling in his stomach. 

"What if someone hears us?" Evan's voice quavered off the ripples in the water and echoed off the railing at the sides of the pool. Pietro arched a little and let himself float. 

"They won't _hear_ us," he said very flippantly. "Stop being such a dope." 

"And did you come to New York to escape your criminal record?" Evan said. Pietro turned his head a little and scanned the night. He couldn't find the other boy, and wrinkled his nose because of it. 

"No, that's completely wrong," he said absently. "I came because we're destined to meet." 

"Ha," Evan appeared beside him in an instant, grinning. "Are you coming on to me?" 

He was obviously joking. Pietro felt something so tight inside him he was afraid he'd snap in half. 

"No, of course not," he said very quietly, with a smile of wretched scorn on his face. 

  


  


  


  


"Fuckers, all of you," Pietro told his house. It stood tall and silent in the night. None of the lights was on. He climbed the steps and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. 

He didn't feel like going to sleep yet. His watch read four o'clock, so it was two or so in the morning. He glanced down, and held out his hand, palm-up, knuckles relaxed. The pads of his fingers were wrinkled a little from being in the water so long, and there was an uncomfortable hollowness in his stomach. He wanted something to eat, but wasn't willing to go inside. 

Listlessly, he sang under his breath, "There's a dream in my brain that just won't go away; it's been stuck there since it came a few nights ago," and trailed off. He leaned back and stared up at the sky. (2) 

It seemed especially blue as the sky often does after midnight, as if there was something lingering beyond the horizon just waiting for dawn. He humored himself whimsically, thinking that maybe the stars he couldn't see through the clouds were all gathered in a rainbow of silver over the curve of the earth. He smiled at the thought: all the brightness gathered like snow. His smile faded, however, as he thought of the moon, alone, dim. He thought maybe the moon was lonely, but brushed it off with a rueful grin, thinking that maybe he was going crazy. 

He plucked a pebble from beside him, and chucked it at the sidewalk at the foot of the stairs. It made a short, sharp sound, very quiet in the night. He felt terribly awake with nowhere to go, so he climbed to his feet, unlocked the front door, and pushed it open. At the back of one of the front closets, he found a yellow bucket of sidewalk chalk, the bottom patched with duct tape, the handle of green plastic cracked down the middle at one end. He carried it, between his stomach and left arm, and stepped out the front door, locked it behind him. 

Selecting a pale blue stick of chalk, Pietro knelt and outlined the top step with it. It seemed to glow in the moonlight. He outlined each of the steps then, returning to the top to scribble them in until they were all blue, like the sky, like water, like eyes too gentle to love. 

"Fuckers," Pietro said. "_All_ of you." 

He finished and was squatting at the bottom of the steps. He looked at them, and was reminded of a stairway to heaven, like the song--like the allegory of pearly gates that was preached at church, like Edith saying he should go to church, or he should go to sleep, or he should eat; he should, he should, he _should_. 

"Fuckers," he repeated and faltered, "all of--all of you." 

God. He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to not sleep, either. He looked up and saw a pale face in the window--Edith. 

She watched him soundlessly, her eyes wide. Blue. 

He looked down and saw the steps he had colored, and he hated them. He stood up, the box of chalk by his feet, dusted his hands off, shoved them into his pockets. Without glancing back at his house, he walked away. 

  


  


  


  


"Hello, Mrs. Daniels," Pietro said very sweetly. 

"Oh, hello, Pietro," Mrs. Daniels said. "Would you like to come in?" 

"I'd love to come in," he said brightly, stepping into the foyer. 

"You're up pretty early," she said, closing the door behind him and walking into the dining room. Her briefcase was on the table. 

"Yeah, I always get up early," he said. It was a lie. 

Mrs. Daniels glanced at him skeptically, "Uh-huh. And why is that?" 

"I'm an awful insomniac," Pietro said cheerfully. "I don't sleep for weeks on end." 

"How'd you grow so tall then?" she asked with a smile. 

"I'm just talented," he said solemnly. 

She chuckled, clicked shut her briefcase, and turned to him again. "Well, if you're here to see Evan, he's still asleep." 

"But it's already half past eight," Pietro said with a sly grin. "What's the world coming to?" 

Mrs. Daniels laughed and said, "Well, aren't you precious. You can go and try to wake him up if you'd like. I'm not guaranteeing that he'll actually get up, though." 

"Is he a deep sleeper?" Pietro asked. 

"Like a bump on a log," she said. "I have to get to work now. Knock some discipline into him, will you?" 

"You have my word," he said, raising his right hand. 

She smiled and said good-bye before vanishing out the back door. Pietro grinned, took the stairs up two at a time, and slowed to a halt in front of Evan's bedroom door. He paused, cocked his head at it, and opened it very slowly. In the middle of the bed was a crinkled up hill of blanket and bedclothes. One arm stuck out, curled around a pillow. 

"Eddy Ed Evan," Pietro tsked, "you poor, sad sonuvabitch." 

Without much warning he yanked the pillow out of the sleep-loose grip and jumped on the bed right on top of the mound. Evan let out a bemused yell and Pietro grinned, thwacking him in the side of the head with the pillow. 

"Good morning, _sun_shine!" he said cheerfully, and thumped him a few more times for good measure. 

"Christ, what the _hell_ are you doin'?" Evan groused, trying to kick him off. 

"Your mom, darling lady she is, hired me to rouse you like rabbit-skunk," Pietro informed him before sitting on his stomach and smothering his face with the pillow again. 

"What the hell's a _rabbit-skunk_?!" Evan yelped, batting at the pillow, his voice slightly muffled. 

"Evan Insert-middle-name-here Daniels, kindly fucking watch your fucking language, please," Pietro grinned. He paused. "And I have no clue what a rabbit-skunk is. I made it up," he added, beaming. 

"Dammit, Pietro, get _off_!" 

"I _am_ getting off, thank you," Pietro said. 

"You asshole," Evan said and finally managed to throw Pietro from the bed. 

"Hey...!" Pietro protested, landing on the same duffel bag from the night before. "You're so violent, Ed." 

"Aw, shut up, man," Evan grumbled. He flopped onto his stomach and throw an arm over the back of his head. "Six friggin' hours. How'm I supposed to get enough sleep when I just got to bed at two!?" 

"Oh, and I suppose you're going to say it was _my_ fault?" Pietro arched an eyebrow. 

Evan sputtered and reached down, grabbed his right sneaker, and threw it in Pietro's general direction. "It _was_ your fault!" 

Pietro dodged the shoe and snickered, "Doesn't mean you have to bitch about it, Ed." 

Evan groaned and sat up, glaring at him. He rubbed at his eyes and leaned back on one hand. He eyed Pietro warily. 

"Why're _you_ so awake, anyway?" he asked easily. 

"I didn't go to sleep," Pietro said. 

"Not at all?" Evan asked, his eyebrows inching up toward his hairline. 

"Nope," Pietro said. He got sick of sitting on the duffel bag and threw himself at the bed, resting both hands behind his head as he lay across the bed's width. 

"You're crazy, man," Evan muttered. 

"What, you've never stayed up all night before?" Pietro asked. 

"Well, usually I sleep for, what, ten hours the next day," Evan said with a grin. 

"Ten...fucking...hours," Pietro said slowly. "I don't think I've ever slept ten fucking hours in my entire life. I don't think I've ever slept ten fucking hours in a week. Total!" 

"You should try it," Evan said. "It's pretty nice." 

"Mm-hm," Pietro said, unconvinced, "and are you going to sleep the rest of your life away?" 

"Playing basketball and sleeping," Evan mused. "I think it all cancels out pretty well." 

"Is basketball your _passion_?" Pietro asked funnily. He was in one of his moods. "Is playing basketball your _passion_? Are you _passionate_ about playing basketball?" (3) 

Evan laughed. "Shut up, man." 

He looked around blearily. "Did my mom leave yet?" 

"Just a few minutes ago," Pietro said, gesturing with one of his elbows. "She told me to discipline the crap out of you." 

That said, he attacked Evan with his pillow again. 

"Stop that," Evan grumbled, grabbing onto the pillow and yanking it out of Pietro's hands. 

"Ow," Pietro mock-whined. "Evan's _bullying_ me around." 

"God, what the hell is wrong with you, man?" Evan grinned, amused. 

"Eh," Pietro sat up and pulled his legs into Indian position. "I'm getting my ass kicked by a scary eight foot two black boy and you're asking me what's wrong?" 

"It's not my fault you're a wussy four foot five white boy," Evan replied. 

"Four foot five," Pietro squawked indignantly. "That's four foot five and a _half_ to you." 

Evan laughed and threw the pillow back at Pietro before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stretched a little. Pietro watched him. 

"What do you plan on doin' today?" Evan asked. "Stayin' within reasonable legal parameters, that is." 

Pietro didn't say anything, and Evan turned to him, puzzled. Pietro'd propped himself up on one elbow and was watching Evan, a strange expression on his face. There was a tangible silence about the boy that seemed to permeate his posture. Finally, Pietro said slowly, 

"I'm guessing you're, what, fourteen years old, then?" 

"Uh, yeah," Evan said. 

"Huh. Well, you're never too young to get a fake ID," he said. 

Evan grinned and reached over to shove Pietro a little before he wandered out of his room to the bathroom. 

"Shut up, man," Evan said over his shoulder. "I'll see you down in a few." 

"Sure," Pietro said, and as Evan shut the bathroom door, he missed the weakness in Pietro's smile, the slight quavering; the brightness in his eyes that said with wondering: 

_God, I think I want him._

  


  


  


  
The sky was bloated with darkness, smudged with gray beyond the pencil-line trunks of trees. It looked like rain, miserable and heavy, and the humidity swam in the air like broth. Whether affected by the dreary weather or his lack of sleep the night before, Pietro felt his mind fogged over with ennui. Disconcerted and more than a little disgruntled, he dragged Evan downtown with him in search of iced drinks for his daily dose of caffeine. They passed a few places--called Ice Cream Parlour and The Coffee Shoppe and Dots--and an empty block of glass and wall with the name "Saywell's" above the door and people inside installing mushroom barstools. Pietro ignored them all, however, and finally nestled the two of them down in an old, small place called "Erin's."(4) 

"What, they couldn't come up with anything better?" Pietro commented dryly. 

"It's kinda eloquent," Evan replied. "My mom gets lunch here." 

"Coffee any good?" 

"I can't believe you drink that crap," Evan said. "But I guess so. They got raspberry mocha frappuccinos." 

"Sounds fantastic," Pietro said with a grin. He leaned his elbows on the counter and peered around for an empty booth. There were only two other people in the present-day diner-esque eatery ("Or whatever they're called now," Pietro commented to Evan, not caring much for semantics), and one of them was an old man with a brown taxicab hat who was reading yesterday's newspaper, and the other was a frazzled-looking woman with too much lipstick, too fine eyebrows, too loud clothes and a V8 splash in one hand and a small salad in the other. 

"Fuckers," Pietro said and Evan grinned crookedly at him. 

A lady with her hair curled so stiffly it didn't move with any motion emerged from the back. She tapped her clipboard a few times on the counter and snapped her gum: "What can I d'ya for?" 

"Raspberry mocha frap for me and...?" Pietro trailed off, quirking an eyebrow at Evan. 

"Uh, medium drink?" Evan said, ending in a question. 

"What kind?" the lady asked, eyeing him with some amusement. 

"Sunkist," Evan said. 

"Four twenty," the lady said after punching in the numbers with her index finger only, other fingers in the air. She snapped her gum. "This all together?" 

"Sure," Pietro said. 

"Manny'll get you your stuff," the lady said. She blew a pink transparent bubble as Pietro handed her a bill. "Outta five." 

She punched open the cashbox and had the change in a matter of seconds with a few darting motions of her arms and flicks of her wrist. 

"Nice earrings," Pietro said when she dropped the change into his palm. 

"My arthritic ma made 'em," the lady said. 

"They're pretty special," Pietro said. 

"They oughta be. Siddown," she said, jerking her head toward the high-back stools that lined the counter. 

"Thanks," Evan said. Pietro flipped his stool around backwards and straddled it. A man with a white, ketchup-stained visor came to the front with two tall cups, one plastic, the other a heavyweight paper. Pietro flicked his fingernail at the straw dispenser twice, pitched one straw to Evan, and blew the wrapper off his. 

"Thank you," Evan repeated when the man handed them their drinks. 

"Polite as all hell," Pietro said very fondly. He crumpled up his straw wrapper and placed it delicately at the top of Evan's head. 

"Shut up," Evan grinned, running his hand through his hair and catching the wrapper between his thumb and forefinger. 

"It's hot out today," Pietro told the lady. She eyed him and said, 

"Don't you boys got places to be?" 

"Not really. I'm on probation. Knifed a guy from wrist to shoulder," Pietro said brightly. He drank some of the frappuccino. 

"I'm eighteen and a half next week," Pietro said. "All I've got to do is stay clean for another three years so they don't send me out. That'd be a real shitkicker. I wouldn't get put into juvie or anything, hey?" 

"He's lying," Evan told the lady very benignly and easily. 

"Shut up, Ed. You ruin all my fun," Pietro kicked the other boy in the shin as well as he could. 

"I fig'ered," the lady said, looking amused. "Yer a little green 'round yer sides. That was slick, though," she said. "You didn't miss a beat." 

"He's a compulsive liar," Evan nodded. 

"Untrue!" Pietro crowed, as if delighted that Evan was mourning Pietro's spastic moral shortcomings. "And if I am, it's not clinically proven." 

"Just 'cause them doctors don't say it's so don't mean it ain't, honey," the lady said almost sympathetically. 

"Attica!" Pietro cried, then snickered, drinking some more of his frap. 

"You got yerself a drama queen," the lady said to Evan. Her nametag read Mae. 

"I know," Evan said. "I've only known him for three days and he's already charmed my mom into giving him a latchkey." 

"Shut up," Pietro said brightly, "she has?" 

"Thank God she hasn't," Evan said. 

"Oh, Ed," Pietro sighed very melodramatically. "I'm hurt." 

"I bet y'are," Mae laughed. Her laugh was spasmodic, as if it took fifty little chuckles for her to fully express her amusement. "I bet y'are, like that guy you knifed." 

"Cleaned this one girl's clock," Pietro told her carelessly. "Gnawed off my bedpost and clobbered her with it a few times." 

"What'd you do with the body?" Evan asked with a grin. 

"I baked it into a casserole and sent it to my dealer," Pietro said. 

"He kills, he lies, and he cooks, too," Mae sighed. "Yer a dream, sweetiepie." 

"I know," Pietro grinned. He looked over at Evan--grinned some more. 

"We'd better get going," he said. 

"Tip you ninety?" Evan fished in his pocket. 

"See you boys around," Mae said, looking pleased, though not pleased enough to try to learn their names. 

"Check you later," Pietro said with a two-finger salute before the two of them disappeared outside. 

"High eighties and no sign of the sun," Evan grumbled. "This sucks." 

"Oh, life's fine," Pietro singsonged, hopping up on the curb. He was in high spirits now that he'd gotten his customary jolt of caffeine in his system. 

"You're pretty weird, 'tro," Evan said easily, glancing over at him. He seemed amused. 

"Oh, I'm pretty fucked up," Pietro drawled. "My mom drowned two of my sisters in the bath tub and blackmailed my dad into hopping off a plane." 

"That sorta sucks," Evan said placidly. 

"You'd think," Pietro agreed. "Hey, do you have a girlfriend, Ed?" 

Evan paused, taken aback by the spontaneity of the question. 

"Um, well, not really. Why?" 

There was a crust of pale on the horizon. 

"No reason," Pietro said with wide eyes. "No reason--just wanted to know if the Fantastic Mr. Evan-oski Daniels is available for any double dates in the future." 

Evan grinned but didn't say anything. Pietro's smile wavered and he said quickly, as though he couldn't stand the silence dissolving in the rippling heat, 

"You didn't get caught, hey? When you snuck back in, I mean." 

"Nah," Evan said. "Mom's a pretty light sleeper, but I didn't have any problems." 

Pietro sighed. "You're a badass," he said slyly. 

"Shut up," Evan said with a short laugh. "Aren't you tried, man?" 

"No, not at all," Pietro said. "I'm bored as fuck, you know. I want to do something--something fun. Anything. You hear that song before?" 

He hummed a few bars: "It's called 'A Perfect Sonnet,' or something. It's pretty good, but the vocals are crap." 

"I haven't heard that," Evan said. 

"Ow," Pietro said instead of replying. He'd nearly lost his footing. "Fucker." 

"Don't trip," Evan said with a smile. 

"Oh, I won't," Pietro said. He watched Evan as he walked a little closer to him. He felt dizzy. 

"Man, it's hot as hell," Evan murmured, and his voice sounded low and smooth. 

"I guess I _am_ tired," Pietro said softly. "Son of a bitch." He enunciated each word very clearly. 

"All of us?" Evan asked, grinning. 

"Fuckers," Pietro agreed, "every last one of you." 

"You wanna come back to my house and just hang for a little?" Evan sidestepped a patch of melting snow and watery, gray ice. 

Pietro was quiet. He looked at Evan's hands, loosely tucked in pockets of cargo shorts. 

"No, thanks," he said finally. "I'm going to go take a nap. Plan my next crime, you know?" 

"Sure, man," Evan said. "I'll see you in ten hours, huh?" 

It made Pietro wonder if Evan remembered every damn thing they'd talked about. He hoped so. 

"Ten hours," he said. "You'd be seeing me in two weeks if you wanted me to sleep ten god-fucking hours." 

Evan laughed. It simmered in the heat and seemed to echo off the sun. Pietro looked away before he couldn't, saying flippantly, "Check you later, Ed." 

"You're a funny guy," Evan said. Pietro felt a churning in him--insecurity, unfamiliar and cold like crying in the dark. He scowled and pressed it back with building panic. 

"Fucking hilarious," he told Evan. 

"I guess so," Evan said, smiling. 

And somehow, as Evan turned to walk the opposite way down the block, Pietro felt himself empty without that smile. 

  


  


  


  


"...So that nothing mattered--all would be clear then--" Pietro trailed off, fumbling for the words. He was mildly in hysterics from boredom. It was roughly nine in the evening and he was lying on his bed. He hadn't slept. 

"This is fucking insane," he mumbled. "What the _hell_ is this?" 

He heard Edith say something softly downstairs, probably, "You should eat," or "Are you hungry?" or "You need to eat." He couldn't listen to her voice anymore; it made him sick. 

"Mulberry juice like Kool-aid," he said, perfectly random. He wondered if Edith thought he was crazy. He wondered if Leroy ("Father," he had called him) was going to institutionalize him for so-called "schizophrenia." 

"Oh, shut up, Mother," he sighed, moving his head a little. His cheek pressed into his pillow, and he wondered why it felt cold. 

"I'm not schizophrenic," he said very quietly to his window. "I'm not crazy. Not clinically. No, I'm _not_." 

He laughed a little and Mae beamed at him from inside an oven; "The doctors, the doctors, honey--oh, they don't say _ever'thin'_, honey, sweetiepie," and he replied with a smile stretched too tight, "Throw me in juvie _any_ day." The old man pulled his taxi in and parked on the tables--it was sunset yellow with a grapefruit pink windshield--and ordered Irish crème coffee, dammit, I can't ever get good service anymore--I'm leaving this dump, I'm _leaving_ it. God, no, wait, where are you _going_? He reached his hand out--Evan? What're you doing, Ed? Oh, God, what'm _I_ doing? What'm I _doing_? Where are you going--don't get in. Fuckers, all of you--no, you can't--Why are you going? Into the cab--you're going into the cab (Pietro reached toward him; no, wait, he said, no, wait, I'm confused, why would you leave me? Don't you like me? Wait, I'm not like that--wait, why don't you tell me? Why don't you ask me?) What can I do to make you stay? Won't you stay? 

Oh, won't you stay? 

You want something to eat? You should eat. Italian? Oh, but carbs. Are you getting enough carbs? You want breadsticks with that? No? Why, they say carbs are good for you. What do you mean? Oh, but I thought you _liked_ blueberry. You like blueberry? Oh, you should eat. You should eat. That's okay. No. Don't tell me--oh, but you should eat. Are you tired? At all? Go ahead and eat. Are you hungry? You should eat. Maybe you should sleep a little. Are you cold? You should put on a sweater. You should, you know--I said, you should. They said you should. I think so, yes, I do. That's what it says right here. Do you understand, Pietro? Do you understand? Why don't you go ahead-- 

"His name is _Evan_--It's _Evan_, and I _hate_ blueberry--don't you--don't you want to know _how_ my _day_ was? Don't you--?" Pietro couldn't see. 

"You have a fever," Edith said quietly. She sat beside him, her hands folded in her lap. "You should sleep." 

  


  


  


  


"He didn't stroke or anything, right?" Evan asked. 

"No, they say he just got dehydrated or something." Evan thought of the pool and fell silent. His mother glanced at him then back at the road. 

"Pietro's mom's worried out of her precious little mind," she said. 

"Pietro's mom," Evan repeated, looking surprised. He hadn't even thought about her. He hesitated. 

"Isn't taking Pietro to a _hospital_ a little, I dunno, drastic, though?" he asked. 

"She didn't know what to do," she said. "I guess he wouldn't wake up or something.--We're here." 

Evan unbuckled his seatbelt and hopped out the passenger-side door. Inside the hospital, the walls were a pale vomit orange. Evan made a face. Mrs. Daniels talked briefly with the receptionist, then they began walking down a hall labeled very simply, "B." 

A woman with limp hair and an olive jacket and brown skirt on was talking with a doctor. She was gesticulating faintly with frail hands with paper-thin skin, distraught. She looked up as soon as they approached, startled like a cornered mouse. Evan stared at her, seeing no similarity between her and her son. 

"Edith," Evan's mother said, rushing to embrace the fragile-seeming figure. Edith seemed to shrink in her friend's arms. 

"Oh, he didn't eat," she said. "I told him he should eat. I said, 'You ought to eat.' He didn't eat. Am I a bad mother?" 

"No, no, of course not," Mrs. Daniels assured her. "I bet he did eat--it's this crazy weather; 30-something one day and then 90 like today." 

"That may have contributed to it, actually," the doctor intervened gently, having watched silently during the exchange, "However, all results say that the main reason for Pietro's collapse is because he hasn't been eating regularly lately. He's worn out." 

Edith made a small whimpering sound. "Was it the heat? I told him to wear a thinner t-shirt. I said 'You should wear something looser.' It was the heat, wasn't it?" 

"No, no, it wasn't anything like that," the doctor reassured her hastily. 

"We're rehabilitating him right now, Mrs. Maximoff," the doctor assured her; "Don't worry." 

"Can we go see him?" Evan asked irrepressibly. 

The doctor hesitated and Edith turned to Evan with a vague look in her eyes. "Who're you?" 

"My son, Evan," Mrs. Daniels said, then, to the doctor with earnest intent: "He's Pietro's friend." 

The doctor hedged, "He hasn't woken up yet." 

"Well, can't I just try? Maybe he's up now. I'll be outta there in five, tops, if he doesn't wake up. He's probably just tired," Evan said. 

"Five minutes," the doctor allowed reluctantly. Edith stared at Evan. 

"Come on," Mrs. Daniels said gently to her as Evan vanished into Pietro's room. "Let's get you some coffee." 

"O-h," she said very softly and let herself be led away, her eyes still trained on the spot where Evan was. 

The hospital room was dim, with cheap, stiff curtains blinding the sunlight. Evan's shoes squeaked on the floor and the door squealed a little before it clicked shut. 

"Hey, Pietro?" he called tentatively. 

There was a pause, then, faintly: "Evan? Are you alone?" 

The starched hospital sheets rustled as Pietro sat up, silhouetted against the gray windows. He grinned, his hair slightly mussed. His eyes were bright in the dark as he asked, "How the hell are you?" 

"Better than you, I guess," Evan said. He sat down on a plastic chair next to the bed and angled it toward Pietro. It was blue and one of the corners was chipped. 

"What, this? This is nothing. I guess I was more tired than I thought." 

Evan frowned, then blurted out, "They said you weren't, y'know--that you weren't eating." 

"Oh, the infamous 'they,'" Pietro said cheekily, in a good mood, apparently. "Don't get your shorts in a bunch, Ed--I fucking ate, okay?" (5) 

"Yeah?" Evan asked, baffled. "But the doctor--" 

"Oh, he's full of it. I guess I should've opened a window or something. If I passed out or whatever, it was probably because it's so fucking hot out," Pietro said very matter-of-factly. He paused, then added, "That's kind of sad. Beaten by a fucking heat wave." 

Evan relaxed, reassured, and grinned: "The higher-ups are pissed that you broke into that pool." 

"Hey, you did it, too!" Pietro protested. "Why didn't _you_ fly off the merry-go-'round of life?" 

"Because I'm a good boy," Evan said placidly. 

"Fuck off," Pietro said with a mock-scowl before smiling slyly, "Now, did you come to keep me company?" 

"What kind of company do you want?" Evan asked jokingly. 

Pietro was quiet. He looked up and met Evan's eyes and found himself thinking that they were beautiful. He berated himself--telling himself that they weren't anything special--brown; regular; an earthy color that anyone might have. He'd almost convinced himself when he made the mistake of remembering the most important thing: These brown, regular, earthy eyes were Evan's, who had a healthy laugh and a messy room and a mother who seemed to love everyone and loved everyone enough to be angry or worried and loved Evan enough to say, "Get up or else"--"or else" meaning "Or else you might not do everything you wanted to," "Or else you'll make me worry," "Or else you'll hate yourself--and you don't want that. _I_ don't want you to hate yourself. What do you want?" 

And Pietro realized it in short of a week and wondered with a sort of melting coolness inside if Evan realized something, too. Without an answer, though, Pietro leaned over and very simply kissed him. 

Evan tasted like rain and a flash of something indistinguishable--like something intangible on the tongue; the fall of memory, the curve of sleep curling like smoke, the brightness of a glimpse over the earth's reach. It wasn't amazing. It was very simple. And Pietro wouldn't have had it any other way. 

"Pietro?" Evan asked very softly when they parted. His eyes were wide. 

"Want me to apologize?" Pietro said. "I'm not going to apologize." 

Evan didn't say anything. Pietro looked down at his hands clenched tight between his knees. He loosened his fingers deliberately and scowled at the hospital bracelet on his wrist. He picked at it idly. 

Finally, Evan said, "No." 

Pietro pursed his lips and watched Evan out of the corner of his eye. 

"Hm," he hummed almost pensively, "are you sure?" He said it almost teasingly. Evan paled faintly. 

"No, I'm not," he confessed. 

"I'm not either," Pietro said slowly, as if it took effort to admit it, "but what the hey?" He grinned. "It doesn't matter." 

Evan looked at him for a long time, then said, smiling, "No, it doesn't, huh?" 

"Nope," Pietro said cheerfully. "I'd like to remind you, however, that you owe me lunch." 

"Shut up," Evan grinned. "You owe _me_ a movie." 

"Stop being stingy," Pietro said. 

"Are you ever serious?" Evan laughed. 

Pietro caught his eye and said sweetly, "No." 

Evan smiled in that irrepressible way he often had, and Pietro felt himself smiling back almost smugly--heard himself say, "Well, what do you want?" 

_God, I think I want you._

Evan shivered, as if someone had run a sliver of ice down his back, and he stood up jerkily, his chair skidding back with th emotion; then he was half on the bed, one knee pressed to the bedstead, palms pressed insistently into the mattress, his mouth on Pietro's, clumsy-hard. 

Pietro was strangely still for a snapshot second, then he reached over, curled his fingers at the base of Evan's neck, and pulled the other boy onto himself. 

He couldn't breathe. The weakness in his lungs brightened like flame and burned out like a candle turned ash, and all he could feel was the singular _heat_ above him--around, inside; spreading like sealing wax from the kiss of something _more_ than fire--unfurling inside his mind like everything beautiful and molten and a lovely earthy color--regular, brown, _warm_. 

Evan touched him with the shy tentativeness of someone who wasn't sure if he might be stepping over some invisible line; a hair trigger to rejection. They kissed softly, Pietro with a self-assured confidence quavering with occasional glinting nervousness, and Evan with a self-induced anxiety shimmering with beginnings of certainty. 

"Is this too fast?" Evan asked shakily when they finally parted. There was the sound of high heels on linoleum outside. It passed by their door and faded. 

"No," Pietro said immediately. Then: "I don't know. Maybe." 

"'Maybe,'" Evan repeated. "I don't know anything about you." 

Pietro rubbed the hem of Evan's t-shirt between his thumb and middle finger. 

"Yeah, you do," he said lightly. "You know more about me than a lot of people." 

"Do I know enough?" Evan pressed. 

Pietro quirked an eyebrow. "Well, you know I'm eighteen with a record of being from the wrong side of the tracks." 

"And your dad chases UFOs?" Evan said, smiling now. 

"And...that you really, really love me?" Pietro suggested, having running out of other things to add to the list. 

Evan frowned slightly, "But is that enough?" 

"My favorite color is green," Pietro said. "I hate bananas, pumpernickel bread, peanut butter, and all of the above together. I like my coffee with three tablespoons of creamer, a little milk, and about fifty pound of sugar. My favorite sport is soccer, I hate chess, Monopoly always reminds me of jingoism for some reason, and I like cats." A beat. "Dogs lick too much," he added in explanation." 

Evan grinned. "Are you trying to tell me something?" 

Pietro sighed, overly melodramatic, and pulled Evan over by the elbow and leaned his head against Evan's. 

"Fuck, Ed," he said. "We've got time. We're in _high school_." He paused, smirked, and allowed, "Well, _I_ am, anyway." 

"Asshole," Evan muttered. "Well, okay. But..." he faltered. 

"But what?" Pietro asked, lifting his head and arching an eyebrow at Evan. 

"But--I'm--well, I'm--I--Hell, I dunno. I'm confused as hell. I didn't know I was, y'know..." Evan trailed off, staring hard at the tile floor. 

"Gay?" Pietro filled in dryly. 

Evan reddened. "Well...yeah." 

"If it makes you feel any better," Pietro told him, "I didn't know either. Congratulations. You're very manly." 

Evan grinned crookedly. "Thanks, I guess." 

Pietro watched him with narrowed eyes. "You're not freaking out, are you?" 

"Not out loud," Evan said weakly. 

Pietro reached out to touch the back of Evan's hand, and Evan shuddered and braced both hands on Pietro's shoulders, flushing darkly as they kissed. 

"Can I have some time? To think?" he rasped. 

"Okay," Pietro agreed reluctantly. He worked his mouth, as if he wanted to say something else, but just repeated, "Okay." 

  


  


  


  


It was quiet in the house. Edith never turned on the lights. It made Pietro never want to come home. 

She asked him very quietly when they'd left the hospital, "Oh, that was Evan?" 

"Yeah," Pietro said tersely, looking away. 

"Oh," Edith said. 

Pietro grimaced, hesitating briefly, then said quickly, "They're wrong, you know. They're just wrong. Those fu--those _doctors_, they're lying. I wasn't starving myself or anything. I wasn't." 

Edith stared down at her shoes. 

"Oh, she said. 

Pietro scowled, angry. 

"I _wasn't_," he insisted. 

She was silent for a moment. "You should eat," she said then. "Hospital food isn't very filling. Their sandwiches barely have enough protein. They make their ham out of this--" 

"I'm tired," Pietro snapped coldly. "I'm going to bed. It's late." 

It was eight in the evening. 

"Oh," Edith said. 

He tried not to run as he left her standing in the kitchen. Alone. 

"Fuckers," he muttered. 

He remembered the doctor saying, "Now, do you suppose you're troubled?" 

"Troubled, troubled, my ass," Pietro muttered. "I'm not _troubled_." 

He thought about Evan and the kiss and Mrs. Daniels with her arm around Edith, all worried. '_Or else_.' 

Mrs. Daniels--Evan's mother. Evan, who needed time. Evan, who needed to think. Clear-cut, black-and-white, newspaper reel, red-blue-yellow _Evan_ in gray. 

Pietro couldn't determine whether or not he was glad that Evan could think in shades. He wondered if he wanted Evan to _think_ about him at all--more than body-on-body, lips-on-lips, heat-in-_heat_ thinking; love-me thinking, not fuck-me thinking--thinking that led to talking about the stars and walking instead of running, talking instead of touching. He wondered if _he_ thought about Evan in any particular way--decided that it was both for him. Both, and it seemed rather pathetic and rather thrilling all at the same time. He shivered slightly. It was terrible, terrifying, beautiful--that _thrilling_. He opened his bedroom window and crossed his arms on the sill, kneeling as he lay his head on them. He pressed his lips to the knob of his right wrist and drew in a breath. He held it. Then, feeling restless, let it go through his nose--slow. 

From below, he heard his name being called. 

"I'm not schizophrenic, I'm not schizophrenic," Pietro mumbled, his forehead against his arms. "My name is Pietro Maximoff, I live on 215 Courtyard St., my dad's name is Leroy--he's 45--my mom's name is Edith--she's 42--I hate Chicago, I hate New York, I hate Cleveland, I hate Charleston, I hate Pennsylvania, I hate Wyoming--" 

"Hey, Pietro?" 

"I hate you, too," Pietro muttered, raising his head and peering, disgruntled, out the window. 

On the sidewalk, Evan stood, waving. 

Pietro smiled. 

"Hold on," he called back, hoping his voice would drift down to the other boy. Drift in the darkness. He wiped his face with a hand. 

It was still a pale blue out, darkening now with night. It wasn't as warm as before and was, in fact, swimming with a swirl of cooling _fizz_ in the air, like champagne or a punch bowl at prom. Pietro drank it into his lungs as he stepped outside, the front door sucked close behind him with a click. He grinned very airily. He couldn't breathe 

"Hey, Ed," he said jokingly, "couldn't stay away from me?" 

Evan just smiled quietly at him, saying after an almost anxious pause, "No." 

Pietro's grin crinkled at his skin like Saran wrap. He put his hand out and precariously leaned against the railing of the steps, very casual, almost indifferent. He hoped he didn't vomit or pass out. He hoped he didn't fall. 

"Oh, yeah?" Easy, slow. 

Evan's smile wavered. 

"Well," Evan said, "I was thinkin'..." 

"I thought you'd take longer," Pietro said when he didn't continue. 

"Me, too," Evan admitted. 

They were both quiet. 

"Should we talk somew'ere else?" Evan worried. He nervously tucked one hand into his shorts pocket, then withdrew it and tightened it slightly into a loose fist. Pietro watched him secretly, unsteadily. He thought of Evan in the pool, of the dim moon and glistening wetness and the smell of chlorine. He sighed and forced his shoulders to sag and relax with breath. 

"It's fine," Pietro said with mock-sweetness, pretending he could reassure. Evan grinned crookedly. 

"I--don't know you," Evan said awkwardly. Pietro watched him with half-lidded eyes. Evan stared at the faded powder blue steps that lay in bars like gold. 

"I--you're real different, Pietro." 

"I know. I'm talented," Pietro said. 

"Shut up," Evan shifted his weight back a little. "I mean it. I've never known anybody like you. You're--" 

"Sexy?" Pietro suggested; a weak joke. He licked his lips. They felt dry like paper. Evan looked at him. 

"Yeah," Evan said hoarsely. He flushed a little darker in the face. Pietro could barely see him in the soft night. He felt like he was going to pass out. "Yeah, I guess you are." 

"Oh," Pietro said, and relaxed his jaw, feeling the chill in the air seep over his tongue. 

Beyond the treeline, the construction-paper sky stretched, thick, dull, heavy with cloud and unshed rain. Evan shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes looking half-lidded in the dark as he stared at the ground. In the distance, there was a loud rattling sound, then a short yelp. Pietro tipped his head, as if trying to make out what it was. The moon was brightening with the sky behind him. 

"So, what now?" Evan asked nervously. 

Pietro hopped with both feet down one step. 

"I don't know," he said very lightly. 

"Pietro?" Evan said with wide eyes. 

Another step. "Ed?" 

"What do we do?" Evan was glancing about nervously. 

Second to last. "I thought you were going to think about that." 

"Well, I--stop bein' a smartass--I was--I just--" 

"Evan," Pietro said. He was now level with the other boy, his eyes very serious. He crossed his arms. 

"Y-yeah?" Evan asked, reddening. He looked past Pietro's ear at a spot in his mind, then slowly met his eyes. 

The moon was soft and glowing, framing Pietro with brightness as he said with brilliant indifference, "Hey, it's okay." 

And when they kissed, the indifference and _it'sokay_ melted away to something else, something that Evan could feel his hands mold with some measure of control, and he relaxed. Above the both of them, the moon glimmered brightly like spring after rain. 

"It's okay like this," Pietro said, breathless while breathing. Then, almost hesitantly: "Like--this?" 

Evan looked at him like a mirror and said, unconsciously sweet, "I guess so." 

'You really are a dope," Pietro said, and he reached to touch Evan at the elbow, the neck. 

"I guess so," Evan repeated more quietly. He seemed like he wanted to smile, but he wasn't sure if it'd be appropriate. 

In the window behind them, a pale face watched with indistinguishable eyes of blue. It watched the boy who made Pietro smile so; it watched the limpid moon, bright around the haloes of their hair. It remembered, in a faint crease of its forehead, the Pietro outside; the softness in the E of its name when he said it; "Edith"--soft O--"mother." A sharpness had frosted over her son's voice very recently, nearly recently--or maybe he had always been sharp; sharp around the edges, the mouth, the hollow of eyes, slope of chin, and inside. But now, on the sidewalk, under the moon still brightening, Pietro was soft again, like when he was very small and very needing (for love, for affection, said the books. How?--you decide). 

  


  


Why? 

  


  


Edith looked at Evan (as only a mother could at someone who wasn't her child) and felt a distinct sense of senseless gratitude toward the one who blurred the painful keenness around her son--her son who said "mother" like he wasn't sure what it meant; the only thing he wasn't sure of--the only thing missing in his smile along with something vague and lonely. 

She looked at the now-bright moon and Pietro and Evan, and felt love for a boy whose name she'd heard again and again from her son--with a sort of desperation in his voice; yes, she knew, a _running_between_the_rain_drops_ desperation. 

She looked out under the still-bright moon and mouthed the name 'Evan' with wonder, and saw Pietro do the same. She imagined he would say it with a soft E. She imagined he would say 'love' with a soft O. She looked at him, and saw, for the first time in a while, his smile. 

_"His name is Evan.--You'd like him."_

She looked at Evan with his hand on Pietro's shoulder, the awkward grin on his face, the way Pietro was smiling back. She looked at the two of them under the moon in the darkness. And she decided she did like him. 

Because Pietro liked him. 

And he liked Pietro, too. 

  


  


  


  


~fin~ 

  


  


  


  


(1) Yes, it _is_ the lovechild of Scott, Todd, and Kurt. Scary, yeah? 

(2) Some lyrics from "Something Vague" by Bright Eyes 

(3) Nai was actually cornered by a middle-aged man who asked her this, only with "violin" instead of "basketball." Nai was traumatized. This is why Nai speaks in third-person now. 

(4) BATE!!! 

(5) No, he's not anorexic. My explanation is his mutant metabolism is kicking in, but I couldn't include that. :\ Oh's well. 

  


  
  


  


  


  


_Lately I've been wishing I had one desire _

Something that would make me never want another 

Something that would make it so that nothing matters 

All would be clear then 

But I guess I'll have to settle for a for a few brief moments 

And watch it all dissolve into a single second 

And try to write it down into a perfect sonnet 

Or one foolish line 

Cause that's all that you'll get 

So you'll have to accept 

You are here and then you're gone 

But I believe that lovers should be tied together 

Thrown into the ocean in the worst of weather 

Left there to drown 

Left there to drown in their innocence 

  
  


"A Perfect Sonnet" ~ Bright Eyes 


End file.
